


Remember Me

by Sar_Kalu



Series: all the Erin Gilbert angst [1]
Category: Ghostbusters (2016), Ghostbusters - All Media Types
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Character Study, Sad, angry, if you're looking for fluff, look elsewhere, not at all chilled out, not even sorry, this is nothing like my other ghostbusters fic, this needed to be done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 04:50:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9476498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sar_Kalu/pseuds/Sar_Kalu
Summary: Alternative Title: I'm not Coming BackCharacter exploration: Erin Gilbert - from age eight to present.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "My hometown has cursed me, lately  
> 'Cause the last thing that I noticed as that old dream came around  
> Was a city burning golden as the sun came shining down  
> And I said they’re still in my mind  
> And screamed “Goodbye, farewell!” to my hometown.  
> I’m not coming back."  
> \- Husky, "I'm Not Coming Back"

The sunshine felt cold on the day of the funeral. 

Erin remembers this because even in a heavy black coat and knee length dress, her fingers still felt frozen in the tight grip of her Mothers’ hand; and her Father had walked one step behind her with a heavy hand upon her shoulder, his presence all but driving Erin forwards. 

The grass had been green; almost lurid in the sun that shone down lightly and brightly from the heavens. The graves were pale grey like some monsters teeth rising up from the ground, broken and gaping and seemingly hungry for more. The chairs had been cold and made of a hard wood that had pressed unforgivingly into the backs of her legs and bum. 

The service, Catholic, had been long. The priest had stood up the front and guided the town into hymn and prayer. Erin remembers the way the air had been dead and still. There had been no sounds but for the droning voice of the priest. Erin remembers the way her Father had grabbed her wrist and all but hauled her to the front of the congregation, forcing her to lay flowers on top of the partially open casket. 

Erin remembers how the old lady from next door had looked in that casket. 

Her hair had been whispy and curly and coloured blue in a way that didn’t entirely hide that fact that she had been grey and balding. Her face that had been pale and sagging, lines creased into the waxy skin that had looked both entirely too real and too fake. The way her hands rested beneath her breasts and the way her fingernails had looked like thick, yellow, talons. Erin can remember how the casket had smelt of tobacco and the sickly sweet smell of formaldehyde that didn’t quite cover up that musty old lady smell that you have been able to smell from across the street even though the mean old lady’s doors and windows were never opened.

Erin remembers how it had all started. How Tommy from Number Five and Jimmy from Number Seven had dared her, Erin from Number Four, to pat the mean old lady’s cat. Erin remembers how she, a tiny eight year old girl – the shortest in her class – in a pink and white dress with a big bow that rested on her waist with two long satin tails that tickled the backs of her legs beneath the white lace frill on the bottom of her skirt. 

Tommy had been nine and Jimmy was ten. Neither boy had hung around to see eight-year-old Erin Gilbert edge across the quiet empty street and across the mean old lady’s front lawn to where the old grey cat lay across the first cement step up to the house. It was an old mixed breed. Its fur was patchy in places and it looked moth eaten, like a sweater hung up in a cupboard too long without mothballs to protect it from pests. Despite its old and raggedy exterior, the cat watched Erin come closer with one lamp yellow eye half closed as if it didn’t really care about what came next. 

Erin remembers the quiet moments. How she had extended a hand out and brushed gentle fingers through soft grey fur. How the cat, after a long moment, had finally given out a rusty purr; reluctant, slow, and deep but strong enough that as Erin had slipped her fingers beneath the cats chin, she could feel its throat vibrating. Erin remembers how the cats skin had moved beneath her hand and she had been able to feel every rib, every vertebra in its skinny body. Erin remembers being fascinated by the feeling of bones beneath the cats skin, how she had become mesmerised by the feel, the warmth, the sheer happiness of that rusty, stuttering purr. 

Erin also remembers how the mean old lady had burst out the front door, shouting angrily at her. Erin remembers how the calm, warm, purring cat had turned into a frightened hell-beast. Erin remembers the feeling of claws sinking deep into her arm and the feeling of her skin tearing. Erin can remember how she had screamed and how her screams plus the mean old lady’s yells had brought her Mother running. Erin can just barely remember how her Mother had grabbed her, apologising to the mean old lady and scolding her in the same breath as she was dragged back into their house. 

Erin can remember being given milk and a sandwich for dinner that night even though it had been a Sunday night which meant a beef roast with chips and boiled vegetables. Erin remembers watching her parents eat their roast and discuss politics above her head, her sandwich had been dry and the peanut butter had been like glue in her mouth. Most of all, Erin remembers how the cuts, that the cat had given her, had throbbed along with every bite and how her arm had felt hot and swollen and heavy. 

Erin remembers how that had been the night that the mean old lady had died in her sleep.

Erin remembers how the mean old lady’s son had taken close to two weeks to organise the funeral and how Tommy and Jimmy had told everyone at school that Erin had killed the Mean Old Lady across the road at Number 8 when she had petted the mean old grey cat with Devil yellow eyes. Erin remembers being called “murderer” and “witch killer” and she had nightmares every single night of those two weeks before the funeral.

Erin remembers waking up on the morning of the funeral, screaming in terror, because it had felt like icy fingers had been playing with her toes and she remembers how her Father had stormed into her room in his pinstriped pyjamas and loomed above her with a face like a thundercloud. Erin remembers feeling more scared of the sudden monsters that her Father had become than the bare memory of the monster in her dreams. 

Erin can still feel her heart beating an erratic drum against her chest and if she presses a hand to her sternum, she swears it never stopped.

Erin remembers the night after the funeral. She remembers seeing the face of the mean old lady hovering above her and she was never quite sure if it was the imprint of that face in her retina or if it had been the ghost that had later materialised at the foot of her twin bed. Erin remembers how her window would slide open ever night, letting the cold air in – summer or winter - and Erin can remember how it was that same chill that woke her up, night after night after night.

Erin, to this day, sleeps in a room with a closed window and cold breezes can frighten her silly. Even though the mean old lady would not be able to survive her now. She is not that scared eight-year-old girl anymore, but she remembers it well.

Erin remembers how that ghost had first appeared to her, months after that first cold breeze that had swept across her cheek and slid its icy fingers down the back of her night shirt. Erin remembers how the light had solidified and coalesced into the cruel visage of that mean old lady and how it was then that the whispers had started.

“Errrriiiiiinnnnn,” she had whispered, her lips unmoving but the sound curling around Erin’s freezing body. Erin remembers how the sound had been like nails over a chalkboard, like the screech of a jumped record, like the breath of wind through a narrow cave opening. 

Erin remembers how the old lady had talked to her, night after night. Telling her she was worthless, telling her that she had killed her, telling Erin how she was the reason she was dead and wouldn’t it be better if she joined the mean old lady from Number Eight?

Erin remembers hiding under her covers. Erin remembers pressing her face into her pillows. Erin remembers the fabric of her bedding sticking to her wet cheeks. Erin remembers how the cotton sheets had turned stiff from salt build up. Erin remembers how, night after night, her prayers to God had gone unanswered and her belief in God had dwindled away because if He couldn’t help her and her parents wouldn’t listen to her, then it was up to her – and she was worthless, useless, and a murderer.

Erin remembers the taunts at school when the news broke that she was being haunted. In the end, Erin is forced to admit that Ghost Girl is the kindest appellation they came up with. Tommy and Jimmy are certain that she killed the mean old lady from Number Eight and that was why she was being haunted. Her screams have woken up the neighbourhood more than once when the ghost had made to grab her and drag her to her second story window. Erin remembers how it had felt to grab onto the too smooth painted wood of her windowsill and how her Mother had come in one night and had screamed loud enough to wake the dead.

Erin remembers how that was when the therapy sessions began. 

Erin can remember how she had picked at her ragged fingernails, blood and cuts spotting her fingers, as the old white haired Doctor had written up a referral to a psychiatrist. Erin can remember her Father throwing a beer bottle at the internal staircase, shouting how his daughter needed to grow up and stop lying, not to be coddled and pumped full of toxic drugs. Erin can remember her Mother’s shrill shrieks in counterpoint to her Father’s sonorous bellows and Erin can remember huddling into her headboard with a book on her lap and trying to not hear the loud argument downstairs.

Erin can remember how in between the therapy sessions, her Father’s cold silence, and her Mother’s pointed remarks about doing better, being better, the ghost had.. just disappeared. Erin can remember counting back the days. Erin can remember the nights where the window would slide open. Erin can remember the nights where fingers of icy steel had grabbed her arms and hauled her towards that open window and how dizzyingly far away the ground had looked beneath her bare feet. Erin can remember how the inexplicable bruises that all active children have, all looked like handprints on her pale skin.

Erin can remember how “murderer” fell out of fashion, replaced by “Crazy Erin”, “Ghost Girl”, and shouted questions about whether she was going to kill herself yet? Erin remembers how one of the girl in her year had shoved her hard into a metal locker and how a jagged edge had cut her arm and the girl had screamed how Erin was cutting herself now; “what a loser!”

Erin remembers how she spent more time in the principles office in Middle School than she had in class. Erin remembers how the library had been her only safe space, where the librarian had been watchful and had chased the jocks from the book-lined walls. Erin remembers learning to lose herself in math and science and trying to explain the world around her.

By the time High School had rolled around, Erin was the nerdy, paranormal loving, straight-A student that everyone loved to hate. Abby Yates had been a balm to her injured soul, but even then, Erin can remember watching Abby with narrowed eyes, wondering when everything would fall apart. 

Erin can remember Abby turning up to her house on weekends, pink cheeked from the cold and carrying a backpack filled with books on her back. Erin can remember watching her parents interacting with Abby and thinking how Abby looked better in her house, at her table, on her bed than she did. Erin can remember wondering about running away, because it’s not like her parents needed her now they had a replacement.

Erin can remember hating and loving Abby in equal measures and hating herself for it. 

Erin can remember not attending graduation and instead packing a suitcase to college. Erin can remember her Mother storming into her bedroom and dragging her down to her car and forcing her into the line at the High School, behind Robert Everard and in front of Julie King. Erin can remember stumbling across the stage, not meeting the principles gaze, and accepting the little white scroll that symbolised her freedom with a tight smile pastes across her face. Erin can remember her Mother dragging her around the gymnasium, forcing her to shake hands and accept insincere well wishes from people she hated.

Erin remembers Abby grabbing her arm and hauling her outside to where her parents waited by her new car that had been a graduation present. 

Erin can remember being finally happy as she and Abby had piled into that silver Buick and hit the road. Erin remembers how the sun had shone like golden fire above her hometown and how she had thought with a cold vengeance that she was never going back. Not ever.

Erin knows she never did. 

Her hands are pressed against hard wood of the second floor windowsill of the old Fire Station. Behind her is the plaintive form of her aging Mother. She’s wearing a neatly pressed blue summer dress with a light beige coat hung over one arm and sensible brown shoes. Erin can almost see her reflection in the window but she’s not looking at her Mother, she’s staring out over the city of New York and knowing that she’s not going back.

“I’m not coming back,” Erin tells her Mother flatly because all she can hear inside the ringing of her ears and beyond the rush of blood, are the curses and taunts of the boys and girls of her old High School. 

Abby is standing beside her Mother, her lips are tight and thin and Erin can tell she disapproves because this is more than pride and vanity, this is her Father’s funeral and Erin wishes she could be sympathetic and sorry – but she can’t.

“Erin, please,” her Mother pleads, her free hand is outstretched and when Erin turns to face her, she can see the horrible similarity between her Mother’s soft, wrinkled hands and the cruel, taloned hands of the Mean Old Lady from Number Eight.

“No, Mother,” Erin tells her firmly, “I am never going back there.”

From her position by Erin’s workspace, Holtz is watching the interaction with clever blue eyes and Erin wishes she would turn her face away. She cannot bear Jillian to see this. Erin is feeling ugly right now. She’s angry, her chest is hot and tight, and she wants nothing more than to scream, cry, and to make a fuss. 

Erin watches her Mother take a step forwards and Erin counters by deliberately almost crossing the second floor in its entirety with two, long uncomfortable strides. Erin’s Mother pouts, her watery blue eyes, nothing like Holtz’s, are pale and red rimmed. Erin cannot find anything in her to be sorry or sad. 

Above everything else in her fucked up childhood, Erin remembers hating her Mother and Father with a deep, dark, and abiding passion; and Erin cannot remember ever forgiving them for it.


End file.
